


No Trouble

by Philipa_Moss



Category: Cambridge Spies
Genre: M/M, Pre-Canon
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2013-12-23
Updated: 2013-12-23
Packaged: 2018-01-05 19:53:56
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,015
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/1097967
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Philipa_Moss/pseuds/Philipa_Moss
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>“Gravity, Anthony, had its way with me and here you find me.”</p>
            </blockquote>





	No Trouble

**Author's Note:**

  * For [Tibby](https://archiveofourown.org/users/Tibby/gifts).



“Guy, I – Guy?” The table, at which a very drunk Guy Burgess had sat a scant two minutes ago, was empty. Anthony peered around the room, which was dark. He was just about to leave in search of Guy, who had probably sneaked out when Julian left and was now probably off doing something foolish with Bell, when there was a sound, like a cat’s sneeze. It came again and Anthony realized it was someone’s hiccough.

 

“Guy?” Anthony said again.

 

“Down here!” came Guy’s reply, and Anthony went down on his knees, questioning himself all the way, and peered under the table.

 

“Hullo,” said Guy.

 

“Good evening,” said Anthony, scooting himself closer. “What’s happened here?”

 

“Gravity, Anthony, had its way with me and here you find me.”

 

“So it seems,” said Anthony. “And yet, ordinarily…”

 

“Ordinarily I prevail, yes. Which marks today as…what, exactly? A special occasion? A red letter day?” Guy pronounced each word in red letter day with enough precision to make a newsreader proud.

 

Anthony wondered, for perhaps the tenth time that day alone, what it was about Guy Burgess that so attracted people. Not just men, and not just lovers. People flocked to him in droves, following his…what? His charm, Anthony supposed. It certainly wasn’t his odor or his dress sense.

 

Anthony himself, hardly the sort to embrace foolishness, was now sitting beneath the table in his own, darkened rooms. This was what Guy brought out in people. This, seemingly, was what people wanted.

 

“I just stepped out for a moment,” said Anthony.

 

“Ever the charming host,” said Guy. “Tell me. Your undergraduate days are not so far behind you—”

 

“Kind of you to have remembered.”

 

“Shush. They are not so far behind you that you would not remember; is this the way it always is? Is this misery common?”

 

“Misery?” said Anthony. “Whatever do you mean?”

 

“This…” Guy trailed off. He twisted his neck about and eyed Anthony appraisingly. “Or perhaps the paths we’ve walked are, you know, so very and all that.”

 

“Guy,” said Anthony with extreme patience, “I have very little idea what you’re talking about, but if you are making yourself miserable over Julian Bell—”

 

“No,” said Guy, quickly. “I mean yes. I mean not entirely.”

 

“You wouldn’t be the first,” said Anthony. “And you won’t be the last.”

 

“He’s not—” Guy began sharply, rising abruptly and bashing his head against the bottom of the table. “He’s not some— I haven’t been _led on_ or— He’s not—”

 

“He’s a very nice boy,” said Anthony, reaching out and running a hand over the top of Guy’s head. He wasn’t sure why he did that. It was another thing Guy—or the darkness, or the wine, or these odd circumstances—had brought out in him. “He’s just the sort who breaks hearts.”

 

“My heart is none of your business,” said Guy, taking hold of Anthony’s hand, stilling it, bringing it down between them. “My heart isn’t the trouble.”

 

“Isn’t it?” said Anthony.

 

“Of course not,” said Guy, huffily. “It’s not that I— Or rather it’s not a question of— It’s not as if what I feel for him is—”

 

This was all nonsense, but Anthony could feel the flow of it and thought it better, at long last, to change the subject. “There are two in Trinity. Donald Maclean. Kim Philby.”

 

Guy groaned and let go of Anthony’s hand. “Anthony, darling, Kim Philby? Tits unfondled are what get Kim Philby out of bed in the morning. What good is Kim Philby to me?”

 

“To us,” said Anthony, and waited to be understood.

 

Guy’s eyes narrowed a bit in comprehension, and then he sighed and flung himself backwards. “The comrades have funny taste.”

 

“Indeed,” said Anthony, nonetheless thinking that was a bit rich, coming from someone who had effectively talking himself into a job spying for the Russians. If their taste was funny, then Guy’s was surely funnier.

 

“And yet, if duty calls,” said Guy.

 

“Indeed,” said Anthony, again, and then jerked as Guy’s hand found its way into his lap.

 

“No?” said Guy, raising an eyebrow. He was using the hand that wasn’t rummaging around Anthony to prop his head up. He looked the picture of contented ease. This was another thing about Guy Burgess. You never knew which version you would get next.

 

“I hadn’t thought,” said Anthony, although saying as much was a lie. He had thought about it, once or twice. Wondered, to put it more accurately. Wondered how Guy’s unpredictability would translate into bed. His spring-loaded wit. His carelessness with himself. His carefulness, strong if rarely displayed, of others.

 

“That’s right, Anthony,” said Guy. “You give it a good think.” He did not withdraw his hand.

 

Julian had asked. Three days ago. Anthony had been blindsided, hadn’t known what to say. All those others—Roger Archer, Baldwin in King’s, Simon Templeton—all those men, he had never asked them. They, like Guy, wanted what hadn’t yet been offered and Anthony— _Anthony_ , who had never thought to want—had been offered it.

 

Misery, Guy had said. Misery.

 

“I don’t think, at this precise moment—” Anthony began.

 

Guy laughed, and began to move his hand with new purpose. “Someone begs to differ.”

 

“No,” said Anthony, firmly, and removed Guy’s hand himself. “No, thank you. Another time.”

 

“Right,” said Guy. “Right.” And then he was suddenly sitting, more or less eye-to-eye with Anthony, and on his face was the look he’d given the comrades, the look that had gotten him into this whole exciting enterprise. That look said I know. I know everything.

 

Just one second, and then the look was gone. “Maybe tomorrow,” Guy was saying with a strange wistfulness.

 

“I shouldn’t count on it,” Anthony said tactfully.

 

Guy rolled his eyes. “Not _you_. Julian. Maybe tomorrow will be different.”

 

“Yes,” said Anthony slowly, considering. “Maybe it will.” When he began to push himself from under the table, Guy grabbed him by the wrist.

 

“No,” he said. “No. A little longer.”

 

So Anthony sat perfectly still, and waited to see what Guy would do next.


End file.
